The Flesh of The Orchid Read online

  “I must get away. . .”

  “Between us we could manage it. He’s smart, but he’s overconfident. You’d have to get this jacket off me.”

  “Oh, no!” Carol said, shrinking back.

  “You’re not frightened of me?” Hatty asked, and laughed.

  “We belong to the same breed. We don’t hurt each other. You needn’t be frightened.”

  Carol shivered.

  “Please don’t talk like that; I’m not mad. It’s wicked to say I’m mad.”

  “Don’t excite yourself,” Hatty said. “If you want to get away you must undo these straps; and you’d better be quick. We can’t be far off now. Once they get you inside you’ll never get out again.”

  Carol walked slowly over to her, stood looking down at her.

  “And if I do release you, how shall I get away?” she asked, and shivered as she saw the cunning that lurked in the bright little eyes.

  “Get me out of this jacket,” Hatty whispered, “and then start screaming and banging. He’ll come in to see what’s the matter. It’s his duty to see what’s happening. While he’s attending to you, I’ll go for him. The two of us can fix him easily enough.”

  Sam Garland was a mile from Point Breese when he heard hammering and screaming from inside the ambulance. He scowled into the darkness, and after a moment’s hesitation stopped the ambulance. He didn’t want Carol to hurt herself. He wanted to hand her over to Doc Travers in good condition so there’d be no arguing about the five-thousand-dollar reward.

  He climbed out of the cab and, cursing under his breath, walked round in the darkness to the back of the ambulance, unlocked the door, opened it and peered into the dimly lit interior.

  Carol was flinging herself against the far wall, her screams reverberating in the confined space.

  Garland shot a quick look at Hatty Summers. She eyed him from under the blanket, giggled excitedly, but she looked safe enough. He climbed into the ambulance, pulled the door to, but not shut, grabbed hold of Carol, twisting her arms behind her.

  “Take it easy,” he said. “You lie down, baby. You’re getting over-excited.”

  Carol was terrified when she found how helpless she was in his experienced grip, and although she struggled frantically Garland forced her to a stretcher that hung on a rack opposite to the one on which Hatty lay.

  “Let me go!” Carol panted. “Take your hands off me!”

  “All right, baby,” Garland said soothingly. “No need to get worked up. Just lie down. I’ll make you comfortable.”

  He gripped her wrists in one big hand, suddenly stooped and caught her under her knees, lifted her and dropped her on to the stretcher.

  At that moment Hatty pushed off the blanket and sat up.

  Some instinct warned Garland of his danger, and he looked over his shoulder as Hatty swung her legs off the stretcher.

  Still holding Carol’s wrists, he faced Hatty.

  “Be a good girl and stay where you are,” he said gently. He wasn’t flustered, but he knew he would have to get out quick. He couldn’t hope to handle both of them. “Get back on to that stretcher,” he ordered, and at the same moment he released Carol’s wrists, jumped for the door.

  There wasn’t enough space for quick movement, and besides, Hatty was already on her feet. She grabbed hold of Garland’s arm, swung him round and, laughing gleefully, she shot her hands at his throat.

  Carol struggled off the stretcher, tried to force her way past Garland to the door, but he threw her back and, cursing, broke Hatty’s stranglehold.

  As he broke clear Carol caught hold of his arm, hung on. Hatty flew at him, her eyes blazing. He reeled back under her weight, his shoulders thudding against the stretcher. Then his foot slipped and he was down, and Hatty, screaming with excitement, reached for his throat again.

  Garland didn’t lose his head. He buried his chin in his chest, kept his neck stiff and hit Hatty with his clenched fist. He hit her very hard, driving her off him, and he twisted round, shoved the ambulance door back, threw himself into the road.

  Carol sprang down beside him, began to run. She had only taken two steps when a hand gripped her flying ankle and she pitched forward, coming down heavily on the tarmac, the breath leaving her body.

  Hatty sprang out of the ambulance as Garland was getting to his feet. She jumped straight at Garland, her feet thudding into his chest. He went over, rolled clear, struggled up, cursing.

  He didn’t give a damn if Hatty escaped, but the Blandish girl was not going to get away if he could help it. She represented five thousand dollars to him—and he could use five thousand dollars. He imagined that if he left Hatty alone she would run off and he would only have to worry about Carol, but here he made a mistake. Hatty was after his blood.

  And when he again shoved her off, and ran to Carol, Hatty paused for a moment while her blunt fingers scrabbled in the grass by the side of the road for a stone. It took her a moment or so before she found a heavy piece of flint, and in that time Garland had caught hold of Carol and was dragging her back to the ambulance.

  Carol screamed frantically, but she was powerless in his grip, and when he swung open the ambulance door she suddenly gave up in despair.

  Hatty waited until Garland had lifted Carol, then she ran up behind him on tiptoe, brought the flint down on his head with all her strength.

  * * *

  It was mid-day and the hot sunshine streamed down on the golden plantation and on the big white stucco house that stood on the hill.

  Deputy George Staum sat on the white terrace, his hat at the back of his head, a cigarette dangling from his lips. This, he told himself, was the life. Guarding a place like Grass Hill was a cinch, especially when your hostess was as beautiful and as hospitable as Veda Banning. And not only that, but there was nothing to do except sit around and nurse a gun and sunbathe. It was a life of ease and luxury: something Staum had always wished to experience. His job was to watch out for the Sullivans, but then he knew the Sullivans didn’t exist. Still, if Kamp thought they did and wanted him to sit around in the sun to look out for them, that suited him. In fact, he hoped Kamp would continue to believe in the Sullivan myth so he could stay here for the rest of the fall.

  “You wouldn’t have thought a smart fella like Magarth would have fallen for this bolony about the Sullivans,” Staum thought to himself, stretching out his short legs and shaking his head. It just showed that even a smart guy slipped up every now and then.

  Staum wouldn’t have sat in the sunshine so calmly if he had known the Sullivans were lying in the long grass not more than two hundred yards from him, and had been there for the past half hour, their white faces intent, their eyes watching everything that went on around the big house.

  “I guess he must be in there,” Max said, his thin lips scarcely moving. “If not, why the guard?”

  “What are you going to do?” Frank asked uneasily. The sun was burning down on his back and he was thirsty.

  “We’ll stick around,” Max returned. “I want to see just how many guards there are.”

  Inside the big cool house Magarth was lolling on a settee, a highball in his hand. Veda, who had just come in from the packing shed, smiled her welcome.

  “Well, there you are,” she said, coming over to him. “I didn’t expect to see you this morning. Have you got all you want?”

  “You might freshen this up for me,” Magarth said, handing over his glass. “I thought I’d look in and see how the patient is. Nurse Davies says he had a good night.”

  “He is better,” Veda returned, adding more whisky to Magarth’s drink and passing it back. “No news of the Blandish girl vet?”

  “NO, nor of the Sullivans.”

  “George Staum doesn’t believe in the Sullivans,” Veda said, sitting down beside Magarth.

  “He doesn’t believe in anything. But he will if they ever turn up here—which I hope they won’t.”

  The telephone rang in the hall and a moment later the receiver n
ear Magarth buzzed as the maid switched the call through.

  “It’s for you, precious,” Veda said, handing the receiver to Magarth.

  It was Sheriff Kamp on the line.

  Magarth listened to the deep growling voice, nodded his head.

  “O.K., I’ll be right down. Thanks, Sheriff,” he said, hung up.

  “Now what’s happened?” Veda asked. “You’re always running away just when I think I have you to myself.”

  “There’s another nut loose,” Magarth said in disgust. “She was being shipped from Kinston to Glenview last night, but somehow she got loose and murdered the attendant and now they’re looking for her. They thought I might like to cover it. I don’t want to, but I suppose I’ll have to earn my living.” He stood up. “I’ll be out here tonight if I’m not too busy,” he went on. “Think you’d like to have me?”

  “I think so,” Veda said, slipped her arm through his and walked with him on to the terrace.

  “Enjoying yourself?” Magarth asked Staum.

  Staum opened one eye, nodded.

  “You bet,” he said. “It’s fine out here.”

  “Well, don’t go to sleep. Your job is to watch for the Sullivans.”

  “Sure,” Staum said, and laughed. “I’ll watch for them.”

  “You don’t really think they’ll come?” Veda asked as Magarth climbed into his car.

  “I don’t, but we may as well be on the safe side,” he returned. “I think they’re out of the district by now. So long, sugar. See you tonight.”

  The Sullivans watched him go.

  “That’s a nice-looking frail,” Frank said, staring through a pair of field-glasses at Veda as she made her way along the terrace. “I bet you wouldn’t have to be a piano-mover to push her over.”

  Max fished out a bottle of lemonade, snapped off the cap and drank from the bottle.

  “Get your mind off her,” he said, passing the bottle to Frank. “You think too much about women.”

  “Got to think about something,” Frank said sullenly. “You intend to kill this guy?”

  “If he’s there,” Max said quietly. “We’ve got to kill him unless you want to sit in a cell and hear them knock up a scaffold for you.”

  Frank’s face twisted.

  “After this we’d better quit,” he said in a low voice. “We’ve had the breaks up to now, and we’ve got dough. We’d best quit.”

  Max smiled thinly to himself.

  He had been waiting for Frank to say this for some time.

  “We’re not ready to quit yet,” he said.

  “Well, I am,” Frank said.

  There was a long pause.

  “I organized this racket. I said when we’d start, and I’ll say when we quit,” Max said softly.

  Frank said nothing. He stared down at the sleeping Deputy Sheriff as he sat slumped in the deck-chair and his face twitched again.

  “And we’re not quitting yet,” Max added.

  Magarth whistled softly under his breath as he drove rapidly along the hill-road leading into Point Breese. It had suddenly occurred to him that if he appointed himself manager of Veda’s orange plantation he could live in the house, be near Veda all the time, and yet still have his freedom. It didn’t bother him that he knew nothing about the production of oranges. Veda was an expert, and she could look after that end of it. He could ride round on a big white horse and urge the workers to greater effort. Such a job would suit him. He wondered if Veda would react favourably; decided that she would.

  If he found the Blandish girl and got her settled, he’d put the idea up to Veda. But the Blandish girl would have to be found first. She had been at liberty now nine days and only five more days remained before she could claim her freedom and her money. Magarth grinned to himself, thinking of Hartman: he would be gnashing his teeth by now.

  Then suddenly he slammed on his brakes, skidding the car right across the road, and came to a stop perilously near a ditch.

  He sat there staring, not believing his eyes. Then with a suppressed exclamation he threw open the car door, ran to meet Carol as she staggered towards him, her dress in tatters, her hair dishevelled, her face drawn with exhaustion.

  Magarth grabbed her as she swayed into his arms.

  “All right, kid,” he said, lifting her. “Don’t try to talk. You’re safe now. Just take it easy.”

  “Steve . . . Steve . . .” she murmured. “Where is he? Is he all right? Please tell me. . . .”

  “He’s all right,” Magarth said, settling her into the car. “He’s ill of course, but he’s out of danger. I’ll take you to him right away.”

  Carol began to cry weakly.

  “I never thought I’d get to him,” she said, her head falling against the cushioned back of the seat. “It’s been dreadful. . . . I never thought I’d get to him. . . .”

  Magarth reversed the car, drove furiously back to Grass Hill.

  * * *

  At one o’clock the same afternoon they caught Hatty Summers as she came out of a saloon bar on the outskirts of Point Breese.

  She had always had a liking for neat rum, and with the money she had found on the dead body of Sam Garland she had been indulging her weakness.

  She was in an amiable and conciliatory mood when they surrounded her, and she displayed to the horrified crowd the big bloodstained flint with which she had battered Garland’s head to pulp, delighted to be the centre of attraction.

  Dr. Travers and two white-coated attendants took charge of her and hurried her into the waiting ambulance, and there, behind closed doors, expertly put a strait-jacket on her.

  Sheriff Kamp, who had been present at the capture, looked around in vain for Magarth.

  “That fellow’s never where he’s wanted,” he complained to one of his deputies. “I wanted my picture taken arresting that female. Now where the blazes has the pesky fellow got to?”

  Dr. Travers climbed out of the ambulance, hurried over to Kamp, his eyes alight with excitement.

  “My patient tells me that Garland picked up Carol Blandish a few miles from Point Breese, and it was to help Carol escape that she murdered poor Garland,” he said.

  Kamp blinked.

  “Does she know what she’s talking about?”

  “Her description of Carol Blandish is unmistakable. It looks as if the girl’s come back to Point Breese.”

  Kamp lifted his sweat-stained stetson to scratch his head.

  “I’ll get working on this right away,” he said, but as he prepared to move off, Simon Hartman drove up in a glittering Cadillac.

  “Here’s Mr. Hartman,” Travers said, his face darkening. “You know him, Sheriff?”

  “I know him,” Kamp growled, and the two men waited for Hartman to join them.

  “I hear a lunatic has been captured,” Hartman said abruptly. “Is it Carol?”

  “No, Mr. Hartman,” Travers replied. “It was another of my patients.”

  “You seem to specialize in losing patients,” Hartman grated, his face taut with disappointed anger. “Just when do you propose finding my ward?”

  “We have just received news that she has returned to Point Breese,” Travers said. “The Sheriff is organizing another search party.”

  Hartman gave Kamp a contemptuous look.

  “Your search parties, up to now, have been singularly unsuccessful,” he said, then abruptly, “Where’s this man Steve Larson?”

  Kamp managed to look a little vacant.

  “Probably in Waltonville Hospital,” he said. “Why?”

  “From what I hear from Mrs. Fleming, Carol appears to have fallen in love with him. It’s possible she will try to find bun. You’d better put a guard at the hospital in case she shows up there.”

  “Could do,” Kamp said, stroking his moustache.

  “Then do it,” Hartman barked. “The girl should have been found days ago. Get your men to work. She’s got to be found before the week-end or I’ll see this is the last job you’ll have the chance to ma
ke a mess of!” He turned sharply to Travers. “Come along, Doctor, I want to talk to you.”

  Kamp watched them go, tipped his hat and winked at his deputy.

  “Getting pretty hot under the collar, isn’t he?” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe I’d better have a word with that pesky Magarth.”

  “Want me to go over to the Waltonville Hospital?” the deputy asked.

  Kamp shook his head.

  “No. Somehow I don’t think Larson’s there,” he returned, winked again and then set of with long, unhurried strides to his office.

  * * *

  “I think she’s a darling,” Veda said, as she came into the big lounge where Magarth was pacing up and down. “She’s seen Steve for a moment. He was sleeping, but it was wonderful to see the expression in her eyes as she looked down at him. I only hope I’ll be able to look like that if ever you fall ill.”

  “So do I,” Magarth said, “and I hope I won’t be too ill to appreciate it. Is she all right?”

  “She’s had an awful time, but I think she’ll be all right after a good rest,” Veda returned, sitting on the arm of an easy chair. “Do give me a drink, honey, all this excitement has frayed my nerves.”

  “What’s she doing now?” Magarth asked as he mixed a dry martini.

  “She’s having a bath,” Veda returned. “Don’t you think Dr. Kober ought to look at her? He might give her something to help her sleep.”

  “She won’t need anything to help her sleep,” Magarth said, carrying the drink over to her. “I don’t want any doctors or nurses messing her about. They might scare her into one of her turns.”

  “I’m quite positive there’s nothing the matter with her,” Veda said. “Now I’ve talked to her I think the way you do. She’s as normal as I am, and she’s such a sweet kid.”

  Magarth grunted.

  “It won’t do any harm to keep an eye on her,” he said. “But I agree: I can’t imagine her being dangerous.”

  Veda eyed him over the top of the cocktail glass.

  “There’s something on your mind,” she said. “What is it?”

  “She said the Sullivans left last night for Point Breese. They intend to finish Larson,” Magarth said quietly. “I’m wondering how they managed to slip through Kamp’s cordon. We’ve been watching for them and all the roads are guarded.”